


Handiwork

by cythraul



Series: Karavsakkan [7]
Category: In Nomine
Genre: Gen, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-22
Updated: 2012-03-22
Packaged: 2017-11-02 09:24:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/367467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cythraul/pseuds/cythraul





	Handiwork

Karavsakkan has been working, hunched over at his desk, for days now. The work is simple, but his hands - normally so steady - are shaking, along with the rest of him. He's never used his needles this way before. The voice's screaming has been incessant, as have Sakkan's tears.

It's nigh feverish when at last he stands up, the work done.

( _She never loved you! How could she? Look at you! LOOK at you! You're a monster! A fucking MONSTER! There's no good in you - no WORTH!_ )

Karavsakkan pulls the first piece - a simple hide belt - from the desk. He slides it about his waist. His face is clenched so tightly he can barely see, and his hands fumble with the buckle for several minutes.

( _You're EVIL! PURE EVIL! LOOK AT YOU! A SERVITOR OF DEATH! **DEATH!** TERROR TO THE INNOCENT!_ )

Sakkan bends forward a bit, and picks up the second piece - a thick, hide breastplate. He lifts it to slide it over his head, but ends up burying his face in it, pressing into it, wracked with sobs. He doesn't know how long he stands thus before he puts the breastplate on.

( _There's no HOPE for you! She offered you LIES! HOLLOW, CRUEL, EMPTY LIES! THERE **IS NO REDEMPTION!** GIVE UP NOW!_ )

He lifts the next piece - a pair of tall, thick hide boots - and drops them on the floor. He collapses to his knees beside them. Still weeping, he falls forward and pushes his face and hands into the floor. He sits like that, wracked and shaking, for what seems like days. He reaches out with his left hand, and pulls one of the boots to himself, holding it to the side of his face. Eventually, he sits up, and back, and pulls them on. He falls back, on his back, on the floor, and brings his hands up to cover his face.

( _What, you think God's an unalloyed **GOOD?** That he could EVER see ANY worth in a pathetic WRETCH like YOU?_ )

Sakkan eventually rolls onto his side, and slowly stands up. He reaches over onto his desk, and lifts up a great pentagonal shield, made of leathern skin stretched across a frame of bones. Slowly, with his right hand, he straps it to his left arm. He holds it up, stares into it for moment, then breaks down into another fit of sobs.

( _You've already **Fallen** , wretch. **I'm** your only hope now._ )

Karavsakkan leans forward again, and lifts up, from the desk, a ghastly Calabite-skull helm. He holds it in the air for several long moments, staring into its sightless eyes.

The shaking stops. He stares.

Slowly, the Djinn begins to giggle. He stares at the skull 'till he's laughing through tears again. He puts it on.

( _Yes... that's right. Now... use me. **Wield** me._ )

Karavasakkan turns from the table, to the far corner of the room. It's there, leaning against the wall, a narrow line of dull, polished bone. He made it first of all.

Sakkan walks over, calmly and hefts it. A slow, cruel grin begins to grow across his face.  



End file.
